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Regarding Eddy Merckx

We were determined to solve the inevitable, essentially unknowable mystery of what made this quiet, unassuming son of a shopkeeper into the greatest cyclist of all time. So we just asked him.

john brant

Eddy glides quickly to the hotel entrance. I jump out of the car as he dismounts, his back toward me. I start to call his name but hold back, reluctant to disturb his moment of privacy. At home in Belgium, Merckx had told me yesterday, he can't sit in a cafe without getting pestered by autograph seekers, nor can he ride his bicycle without passing motorists honking and waving. Here in Penticton, by contrast, Eddy appears to be taken for just another aging, spandex-clad tourist enjoying his afternoon exercise.

Now he's reaching for his room key. What endorphin-laced thoughts, I wonder, does the legendary Eddy Merckx think at the end of a ride? That's the kind of question I've been waiting to ask. Speaking loud enough for him to hear me but quiet enough, I hope, that he won't freak out, I take my shot.

"Eddy, hello, excuse me?"

Merckx turns, swiveling his broad shoulders, his brown eyes widening with alarm. At first he doesn't recognize me. Suddenly it's 1975 again, and Eddy is toiling up the Puy de Dôme on the 14th stage of the Tour de France. A crazed fan steps into the road to wallop Merckx in the midsection, bruising his liver. Eddy must fear that I'm some emotional descendent of that unhinged man, one of the multitude of admirers who've tormented him over the years, demanding an autograph or photo at best and a conversation or some other intimate encounter at worst.

"Eddy, it's me," I say quickly. "The reporter from the American magazine? The guy writing the profile?"

Merckx's eyes narrow. He's still trying to place me, still gauging my threat. Suddenly it's 1969 again, and Eddy Merckx has been bounced from the Giro d'Italia due to a failed doping test. All of Europe is going nuts, the newspapers that previously trumpeted him as a blazing young talent now call for his blood. Photographers thrust cameras in his face and writers concoct wild fantasies. One tabloid reports that the Belgian government has dispatched paratroopers to rescue Merckx from Italy.

Then the surprise fades and Eddy Merckx is back in the moment. He no longer seems wary. He just looks perplexed. "You are the guy from Bicycling," he says.

"Yes, that's right."

Eddy looks at me. "You came out to Axel's house for the interview yesterday," he says. His tone is friendly, but what Merckx really seems to be saying is: You had two hours one-on-one with me at my son's house, and now you want more of my time?

"Yes, that's right, thank you for that, but I was wondering if you might have a few minutes now..." I still don't understand what made you The Cannibal. We can sit by the pool. You can tell me your secrets.

His eyes betray a glint. He seems to recognize the game. "I'm going to take a shower now," he says, not unkindly. "Set it up with Axel." Then Eddy Merckx carries his bike inside, the door closing and locking behind him.